


Loving The Enemy

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Romance Novel, Crack, M/M, Purple Prose, turgid man-spears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-10
Updated: 2005-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:42:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"LOVING THE ENEMY: He is the Half-Blood Prince in exile. He is the dashing werewolf spy sent to capture him." </p><p>karasu_hime drew a lovely romance novel cover with that title and copy, so I wrote a cracktastic story to go along with it. Ridiculous crack, and utterly, utterly AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loving The Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> You are warned for crack, vocabulary words, and turgid man-spears. I should probably not drink so much coffee. I should probably not have been an English major. I should definitely never have read all those epistolary 18thC novels.

I do not think it is possible for the situation to be worse, my dearest diary, you who are now my only friend.

I had bided my time as my advisors would have me do, serving the evil usurper with care and deference. I blended his potions, bowed and scraped at his command, even deigned to lend my name and rank to enhance his attempts at legitimacy. Yet what did this gain me? Scorn and ridicule. Hours spent evading the lecherous glances of that blasted man Lucius Malfoy, the Right Honourable Earl of Kennet, and his lady wife, who is _no lady_ , I am afraid. Perhaps worst of all, meetings at dawn! When decent folk are still abed! And no coffee!

O, how I miss coffee. 

But I must tell this tale, and then I might find peace. I fear coffee is too much to hope for in this benighted land.

After many years of service to the usurper while meeting secretly with those still faithful to the crown, matters reached a head. Young Draco Malfoy, Viscount Pewsey and son to the earl, had been seduced with promises of power and fame despite all my careful counsels. Lady Kennet obtained my promise (though truth be told, I swore her oath only through fear of the devilish Lady Bellatrix, her sister) that I would fulfill Pewsey's task should he - more likely _when_ he - be unable to perform it himself. To my horror and dismay, the task to which I had bound myself was none other than the death of my most honoured and aged advisor, the wizard Albus Dumbledore. Perhaps, I thought, a great eagle would come from the sky and rescue us all from this madness.

It is thoughts like this which have caused great distress to my advisors over the years, or so they tell me.

And so it came to pass, one warm spring night, that I found myself atop the crenellated towers of Hogwarts Castle. Pewsey was, as expected, aquiver with fright and terror. My dearest Dumbledore was patiently encouraging the young rake to speak the forbidden words. "Avada, my Lord," he said in his gentlest voice, as it was when he taught me the special private spells that only young gentlemen and their tutors need know...but I digress. At any rate, young Pewsey could do nothing, and so I was bound to the vow I swore to that dreadful woman.

I stepped forward and, with heavy heart, spoke the words that destroyed my oldest friend. Green light flashed. Pewsey ran to me, and we escaped. Nothing more should be said of that horrible night. The usurper's troops ransacked the castle, and I could do nothing lest my dual role be exposed and our true cause be compromised. I got Pewsey into his aunt's care - damn that woman! I distrust her intentions toward the boy - and managed to find my way to the secret meeting-place of the royalist supporters.

There, dearest diary, I found her. My old nurse and cherished companion, Madame McGonagall. She kissed my cheek, a liberty allowed only to those in my innermost circle, and handed me a delicate golden ornament. "You must leave," she whispered. "Spin this and close your eyes until the shaking subsides." (She was always most careful of my unfortunate tendency to nausea, the dear old Scotswoman.) She dropped one last curtsey to me.

My eyes glimmering with unshed tears, I bowed deeply to her and spun the shining toy. The world whirled away, and I shut my eyes tightly in obedience. When I finally opened my eyes again, the rough stone walls of Hogwarts Castle were gone. I was standing in a patch of gorse - most prickly, I must say - near the base of a stone outcropping. It was damned cold, diary, and I will _not_ apologize for my language. I looked down and found myself adorned in the simple clothing one might associate with peasants, not the classes with which I am accustomed to consort. Rough woolens scraped my skin, coarse linen did nothing to keep out the wind, and a giant woolen plaid that smelt of sheep (I assume it is sheep, though I have no personal familiarity with those animals, rumors to the contrary be damned (and no, I shall not apologize for that either)) was all I had as protection against this bitter evening.

A tiny flicker of light was all that betrayed the small cottage tucked into the crag behind me, and I clambered toward it. The smell of sheep grew ever stronger, but I persevered. Eventually I reached the shanty - for that is all it was - and raised my fist to pound upon the wall. Suddenly, Dumbledore's voice filled my head, reminding me that caution was the best practice, and I crouched below the window instead. It had no glass but was covered only by a leather flap. Though I pitied this peasant for his poverty and misfortune, I was grateful that I could hear his conversation. Once I deciphered the unusual accent and realized what he was saying, I was so startled that I fell over into a large mud puddle.

That the pig in possession of this puddle was of an amorous nature is hardly the point. I am sure you will agree, diary. The _point_ is that McGonagall's fiendish glimmering toy has somehow spun me far back into the past! The crofter was plotting with his friends how best to support the perfidious and crafty Earl of Carrick, Robert the Bruce! There were few things I learned in my studies of Muggle history, but this fiendish tale of rebellion and treason cut close to my own heart and birthright. How have I managed to find myself in ancient Scotland, friendless and alone, without the counsel of those I love or even the repellent touch of a Malfoy - or the usurper himself - to warm my chilled skin?

I struggled upright and got away from the cottage as quietly as I could. Though the mud made horrible sucking sounds as it embraced my boots, the noise was covered by the unearthly squealing of my porcine paramour as it followed me. Some distance from the cottage, I found a small copse of trees, where I now sit, wrapped in sheepy plaid, to write these words of sadness and despair.

I am the Half-Blood Prince. I am in exile. And I am being molested by a pig.

::

  


It is unlike me to neglect my duties, but it has indeed been a week since I last wrote within your covers, my dearest friend. In my own defense, I can offer only the sheer exhaustion caused by physical labor.

Yes, labor! Isn't that a cunning plan?

After my last entry, I fell into a deep sleep against a small oak sapling. The morning came, and with it, the rough calls of an unbred voice. The voice came closer. I opened my eyes to see a wild man in front of me, or perhaps all Scotsmen in this age look like this. I would have no way of knowing. At any rate, the man gesticulated and shouted until I stood.

As I rose, the pig appeared from behind another tree. Its snout was covered with oak leaves and acorn shells, and it snuffled happily to see the wild man. He dropped to his knees and embraced the animal, then rose to his feet and clapped me on the shoulder. With some difficulty, I ascertained that he had originally accused me of stealing the pig, but now believed that I had rescued it and was planning to return the animal when the sun rose.

Frankly, I had no opinion either way, but it is always good to have the lower classes in one's debt.

He drew me away from the copse and back toward the cottage, scratching the pig's back as we walked. Once inside, he offered me bread and cheese. I was famished and devoured it, rough food though it was. His strange accent became easier to understand as he talked, and I soon comprehended his questions. I explained that I was new to this land and that I was lost. He asked if I had money. I regretfully explained that I had misplaced my purse. He looked me up and down in a most disconcerting way, muttering something about "finding a way to pay". My lack of comprehension must have shown upon my face, as he stood and left the cottage, beckoning me to follow.

We crossed the pigsty to a small stone hut, home only to a very pregnant sheep. He made me understand that he would permit me to sleep in this hut and provide me food, such as it is. I agreed, having nothing else upon which to rely, and hoped only that I would not be forced to share my straw bed with the pig (who was, I admit, lurking in the doorway making mournful noise and giving hateful glances to the ewe). 

In my concentration upon the animal rivalry, I suspect that I missed some crucial element of the agreement, since in the days that followed that morning, I have been forced to labor at tasks most filthy from dawn until dusk. Frankly, I would rather play the games so dear to Kennet's heart, the ones which make me feel rather quibbly in the tummy and yet fill me with self-loathing and a tiny frisson of - something. I do not have to tell you _everything_ , you blasted book. (And no, I shan't apologize. Do be quiet.)

The work is not the only disquieting element of my new life here amid the gorse. Feradac - for that is my landlord's name - has just brought another person to the hut and introduced him to the ewe. This new person appears nearly as unsuited to heavy labor as I am. He is lithe and muscled, true, but his hands are uncallused, his hair is clean and golden, his eyes glimmering amber in the sun. The leather trousers will not last long in their unsoiled state, I suspect, especially since Feradac has just set this new man (calling himself Romulus, a _most_ improbable name indeed - I have chosen the far less obtrusive "Sebastien du Snape" myself) to shovel out the pig's sty, a task to which "Romulus" has set himself with great enthusiasm, so much so that he has removed his shirt and thus exposed a great many silvered and ancient scars across his chest.

Though, truth be told, I have paid little attention to him.

::

  


I have time only for a brief entry, especially that you are now hidden inside an oak tree in the copse, my one true friend. I suspect Romulus of reading you when I am outside walking the ewe, and do not wish my secrets to be so exposed to such a suspicious man.

He asks the most impertinent questions! Do I believe in magic, he wonders. What do I think of dangerous usurpers? Have I any skill in blending medicines? Am I royalist or rebel? Do I prefer men to women? Where did I get a name like Sebastien? Would I mind if he kissed the pig, or do I harbor some proprietary feelings for it?

Honestly, if I were not so skilled in courtly machination, I might begin to wonder if he is something more than the simple worker he claims to be.

::

  


I am undone! I must flee this place!

However, I shall take a moment to record the fiendish occurrence which drives me away, for posterity's sake. A prince's duty is to his legacy, after all. That is what Dumbledore always said, and I am very sorry indeed that I killed him.

In my last entry, I alluded to the questions which Romulus was bent upon asking. I managed to give him answers within answers, enough to confuse a pigboy at any rate, and thought we were done with such nonsense. Having hidden you, dearest diary, I felt secure in my role as Sebastien du Snape, harvester of turnips and caretaker of pregnant she-sheep. Life progressed as it had done for several weeks, until this fateful morn.

I awoke at the first glimmers of sunlight, as is my wont, a warm body pressed against my back. The pig had taken to sleeping on my pallet during the day, and I assumed it had slipped in during the night. No matter. It was warm, and I was a bit chilled. Then, to my surprise, the body rolled, and a hand draped across my hip! A _human_ hand, not a pig hand! I stayed perfectly still - well, I must confess, most of me stayed perfectly still, except for a traitorous bit of flesh - but there is no need to go into that right now. I am, after all, about to flee, and have no time for such frivolities.

The hand was attached to an arm which snuggled itself into the curve of my waist, bringing along a warm - _human!_ \- form tucked against my back. Though I did my desperate best to ignore it, I knew that this was a male human because of the growing lumpiness pressed (all right, wiggling) against my buttocks. It was all rather reminiscent of weekend house parties at Kennet's place.

"Mmmm, Severus," whispered the male human person, "you're so warm. Nice."

I shrieked and jumped from my resting place, wrapping the plaid more securely around my naked person. (I was rather warm when I went to sleep, and cast aside my normal garments somewhat rashly. Also, they stunk of sheep urine, for reasons I do not wish to go into at this moment.) The male human person was Romulus, the pigboy!

"How - _who_ is Severus?" I drew myself up to full princely height and glared down my not-unsubstantial nose at the wretch, now sprawled across the straw in a most ~~languid~~ undignified manner.

"Come now," he drawled, infuriatingly. "You need not play the shepherd with me any longer, Your Highness. You are Prince Severus, are you not?"

I glared at him again, then whirled about and stormed out of the cottage. (I will admit that, once free of the doorway, I stopped storming and began to run. Storming is rather wasteful of energy, though it produces a most delightful effect on underlings.) I ran straight here, to the copse where you are hidden, my diary, so that I could record these distressing events before commencing my flight.

Discovered! Unmasked! Named! ~~Distressingly aroused~~ Touched by a pigboy! My terror threatens to overwhelm me!

There is also the question of how one might best flee without the benefit of pants [here the reader may imagine a smeared line of ink, trailing off the page]

::

  


Again, I fear that I have neglected you, my friend. It has been almost two weeks since I last set down the details of my exile. Just as my pen lifted from the page after questioning my ability to flee unclad, the pig came grunting through the underbrush. Suddenly, my trousers and shirt came flying after, landing upon my head.

"Merlin be praised!," I cried, being well-educated and reverent.

"Hardly Merlin," said Romulus (for it was indeed he), leaning against a tree. "I'm sorry I startled you, Your Highness."

I disguised my unsettled state while quickly donning the peasant garb, which I had never been so grateful to see in the past month. "I do not know what you mean, Romulus. I am a simple shepherd, and it is not unrealistic to expect me to be startled when woken by a - well, by another man's turgid lovespear rubbing against me! I am a chaste man!"

He appeared to be nearly tearful in his sorrow, his shoulders shaking and face pressed into hands. I was gladdened to see such suitable response. Insulting royalty, whether in disguise or no, is a treasonous act.

"I did not know you were chaste," he said slowly. "It was my understanding that you and Lord Kennet were -"

"What that has to do with chastity, I do not know," I exclaimed. I know perfectly well what chastity is all about. After all, Lucius and the usurper both explained it quite clearly, and Dumbledore verified their statements. It is not a violation of chastity to allow oneself to be the recipient of homage, merely to perform such acts of honor upon someone else. As I hold higher rank than anyone in my circle, it would be unseemly for me to offer my respect in such a manner, but it is quite expected for others to do so to me. It all makes perfect sense, but unfortunately, my explanation made Romulus cry again. I have never heard such barking and wheezing associated with tears in all my life. Quite uncouth.

Once he had recovered his senses, he sat upon a rock and began to explain himself. It turns out, diary, that he is not truly a pigboy! My early suspicions were proved true! He says that his name is actually "Remus," not Romulus, but I find this nearly as implausible as the other. When he said that he was a spy, sent to locate me, I admit that my jaw dropped. I do not even know where I am myself, so how could this golden-eyed blackguard find me amid the gorse and pigshit? 

Suddenly, he pulled a familiar object from his leather trousers. It was the same toy that had landed me here! "You are needed at home, Your Highness," he said. "The rebellion against the usurper grows stronger, but we cannot move against him without you at our head."

Well, that all seemed perfectly sensible to me. The rake then stepped closer, wrapping his arms around me! "I admit that I had not expected you to be quite so blond," he murmured. I looked at him in disbelief. My hair has always been raven-black. Mother says it is my best feature. Just my luck to be rescued by a color-blind spy!

"We must travel together," he explained, "or else one of us might end up somewhere else in time and space." He twiddled the toy before I had the opportunity to tell him about my nausea problems, an issue of particular concern since the golden ornament seemed to require people traveling together to touch tongues in order to guarantee a safe trip. At least, that is how Remus explained it to me after we arrived. Luckily, the nausea did not catch up with me until we had returned, and it was not particularly onerous. Perhaps the oral contact did the trick after all.

And so, diary, we were back at Hogwarts Castle. It seemed much calmer. There, upon the entry steps, was Madame McGonagall, flanked by (could it be?) young Pewsey and a mussy-haired young fellow I thought I recognized. Pewsey's equerry, possibly.

"Welcome home, Your Highness," said McGonagall as she curtsied. "Mr. Lupin has done well in finding you."

"How are you here?" I was curious, I will admit. "Where are the usurper and your father, young Pewsey?"

"Potter here killed the usurper," said the younger Malfoy, "and I'm afraid I managed to kill Father in the crossfire."

I raised my eyebrows. Lucius, the usurper, and Dumbledore all dead? This boded poorly for me, as I foresaw a distinct lack of homage in my immediate future. "Am I king yet?"

"Not yet," chuckled the old lady. "We must have a ceremony, of course, and you will want to reward young Potter."

We all came back into the castle after that, and I brought you out straightaway to record these momentous events. Remus has not left my side, preferring to help me select the appropriate robes for a coronation. Just a moment - he is saying something - well! This is promising. He has just asked if there is a particular way in which he can show his respect to me. Let the homage commence!

::

  
Note to self regarding Potter's reward: he looks like a young man who might like a pig. 


End file.
